Comfort
by hyperempathie
Summary: Craig Tucker and Kenny McCormick make out with Grease playing in the background.


_I don't know I don't care_  
_ I'll be waiting for you there_  
_ Crave this chill, bathe in black_  
_ All the ghouls and fiends attack_  
_ Eyes erupt, and I swoon, underneath the pallet moon_  
_ Praise the night, and praise the night_  
_ The only time I feel alright_

_"Night's Song" - Say Anything_

* * *

At one point in his childhood, Craig Tucker deemed himself deserving of a new phone. He spent ages saving up money from birthdays and holidays until he could finally grab a new (totally amazing and not lame at all) iPhone that he'd spent too much money on. But that was okay, because it was his and it was perfect. And then it was a matter of giving his new number out to his classmates; he felt like a celebrity inside his small elementary school.

High school was a lot like that in that he had to give his number out to a lot of kids, since his class was kind of jumbled and full of a bunch of kids he talked to maybe 5 times in middle school. He didn't care too much because most of his friends were there.

He never answered his phone and for most people it took him ages to answer texts, but for some people he'd reply in nanoseconds and Kenny McCormick got answers to messages he hadn't even sent yet. Craig would loom over his phone until the reply came, five minutes seemed like a century.

'can you come over?' 23:34

'what, like right now?' 23:34

'yeah, I guess.' 23:47

'alright, I'll be there in a few' 23:48

'alright' 23:55

He got a splinter from the wood on Kenny's door and he picked it out of his finger while he walked over into his room, before throwing himself onto Kenny's bed. Sometimes Craig would go to Kenny's house to smoke because everyone in South Park knows each other so, if anyone saw Craig Tucker buying cigarettes, it would reach his parents. Other times Craig would go to Kenny's house to make out for a few hours and watch Netflix while getting drunk off of literally whatever Kenny McCormick could find.

Tonight seemed like a good night for both.

"You look like shit," Kenny was like while he plopped onto his bed next to Craig, "your parents know you're here?"

"You sound like a cop from a shitty porno. Of course they don't, dickmunch," he sat up and ran his hands through his hair, "you're one to talk," it was a mumble, "have you been sleeping?"

Of course he hadn't, Craig knew he hadn't, but he still had to ask.

"Wanna watch Grease for the fifth time?" and he knew Craig had a soft spot for shitty musicals and John Travolta so he didn't even wait for an answer before putting it on, dimming the lights and tossing a bottle of bourbon in Craig's general direction. He sat down next to Craig and let him rest his head on his shoulder. Comfort was the way Craig's hair smelled like home.

"I don't actually plan on watching Grease for the fifth time, I hope you're aware," Kenny mumbled and nuzzled his nose against Craig's hair.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Silence was comfortable sometimes, sometimes talking didn't matter because there was nothing to say. The gentle tap of rain outside intensified gradually until it was audible from Kenny's room and the boom of thunder was heard somewhere from the horizon. The sound of the bottle opening engulfed the room before Craig tipped it and passed it to Kenny.

Soon Kenny's hand was on his leg trailing up towards his crotch and Craig's breath hitched as he struggled to form words into sentences, like solving a crossword puzzle in a foreign language.

"I.." cough, "I've uh," he grabbed his hand, "I've never actually…" he hoped that was sufficient.

Kenny let out a breathy chuckle against his neck and decided against making fun of him, instead guiding his hand along his side and kissing comfort into his neck.

They fucked until childhood was lost and innocence was soiled, until Craig felt like he dishonored his entire family, until skin shot against skin like paint splatter and you couldn't tell where hand met neck and nose met thigh…

"Fuck," repeated like a mantra, like a lifeline, "Kenny," something to make sense out of, it felt like nothing Craig had ever felt but not extremely amazing or horrible, it just felt.

"Fuck," one final time.

Their rhythm steadied down to a halt and the room smelled like sweat and smoke while they maneuvered their bodies apart.

"Your breath smells like cum," Kenny managed before they both erupted into airy laughter.

The final musical number played before the credits rolled. Weak in the bones and unmotivated to move, they both shifted around a few times before relaxing. The steady beat of rain against the windowsill still persisted and Kenny's bed felt like sleeping on a bag of potatoes, but it was alright. Comfort was the way Kenny's bony fingers danced across his back.

"'love you," the blonde boy whispered into the stuffy air, "a lot."

"I love you too," Craig turned his head to look at him and planted a lazy kiss on his lips, "you taste like cum."


End file.
